


Compromise

by Fire_Sign



Series: Phrack Fucking Fridays [17]
Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: F/M, pff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-01
Updated: 2017-12-01
Packaged: 2019-02-06 18:23:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12823398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fire_Sign/pseuds/Fire_Sign
Summary: Upon their return to Melbourne, there are a few logistical matters Phryne and Jack still need to work out.





	Compromise

“Mr. Lever,” Jack greeted, gesturing to the interview room. “If you could follow Miss Fisher...”

Adam Lever barely looked at Phryne as he attempted to push past her to the station’s interview room; she stepped into his path unapologetically, her gaze level. His hand raised as if to move Phryne by force; Jack took a step forward, ready to intervene―an unnecessary precaution, as she had the whole thing well in hand, but having seen the rage directed at their victim he’d really rather by prepared than not. Phryne quickly turned on her heel, her back to Lever in a clear signal that she was not the least bit intimidated by him, and led him into the back of the station. She motioned Lever through the door, waiting for Jack to pass to quietly catch his ear.

“I don’t think I’ll get anything from him,” she said, reluctant to admit it but well aware of the sort of man she was dealing with. 

Jack had come to the same conclusion, and tilted his head in acknowledgement. Senior Detective Inspector Robinson it was. 

“Take a seat, Mr. Lever,” Jack instructed. 

The suspect did, and Jack took the chair opposite him. Phryne sidled towards the window, leaning against the small ledge as Jack began the interrogation. 

She had missed watching him work―London had been delightful, but being back on their home territory… well, it was a very nice reminder of how well they worked together. And not _just_ in the boudoir. Or the parlour. Or the library, the back seat of her father’s town car, the kitchen, the bathtub…. 

The point was, she was very pleased to be back investigating with him. Especially when he was doing it so well. The crime had been horrific, their suspect defiant. But Jack kept full control of the interview, the occasional twitch of his cheek the only indication of deeper conflicts; his combination of firm authority and quiet voice leaving the balance of power in his hands. His beautiful, beautiful hands. She watched him question Lever, occasionally interjecting her own comments to clarify or goad but mostly happy to let him take the lead in this particular case. 

Eventually they succeeded, the man confessing the crunch of bone beneath his fist over a few pounds debt with a disturbing amount of glee. 

“Collins!” Jack barked. “Bring Mr. Lever down to the cells and start processing the paperwork.”

“Yes, sir,” Collins said, escorting the man from the room.

When the door shut behind them, Jack allowed himself to take a seat, his head dropping back so he could stare at the ceiling. Neither one of them said anything at first, waiting for the confession tainting the air to clear. After a moment, Phryne came to perch on the table, her hands folded neatly on her crossed legs.

“You know, Jack,” she said lightly, “if you were ever inclined to play detective inspector with me―”

“You’d ignore me completely?” he guessed.

She smiled softly, reaching out to tuck his shirt collar back into position.

“Well, possibly,” she conceded. “But I must admit that the idea is very appealing all the same.”

He raised an eyebrow, clearly doubtful. He wasn’t ending the conversation though, which was likely a commentary on the state of his mind but gave her precisely the in she needed.

“Watching you today, so beautifully in control but roiling with rage… it was inspiring.”

“Barely,” he huffed.

“Pardon?”

“I was barely in control.”

She smiled again. “That was inspiring too.”

“Phryne…” he warned.

“Oh, come on, Jack. The man was an absolute beast, and if you’d snapped on him I would have held your coat and applauded.”

He huffed again. “You’d have gotten in the first kick.”

True, but not the salient point. “The point is, Jack, you didn’t, and you got the confession you needed for justice to be done. That combination of restraint and passion… well, I’m just saying that if you were interested in bringing that into the boudoir on occasion, I wouldn’t be averse.”

“Are you… unsatisfied?” he asked. 

“Hardly,” she laughed, then realised he was serious. “Darling, I am very satisfied. If we weren’t in the interview room right now I would happily show you _how_ satisfied. This was simply a suggestion for adding a little… variety to proceedings. Do you remember last week, when I―” 

He raised a hand to stop her. 

“I take your meaning,” he said. “I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

“Very well,” she shrugged, “there’s always―”

“This is a police station, Miss Fisher. _Try_ not to say anything incriminating.”

―――

As Phryne approached the front door, it was opened by Mr. Butler, who greeted her with a smile and the information that the inspector was waiting in the parlour.

“Has he been there long?” Phryne asked, casting a quick glance at her clothes and pulling the sleeve of her blouse further down her wrist. It wasn’t a _deception_ , as such, more a prudent action until she had time to explain. 

“A half hour or so, miss.”

“Well, hopefully he’s in a better mood than the last time I was late for dinner,” she said lightly.

“I believe he’s not consumed any nerve tonic, at least,” replied her butler, prompting a small smile from Phryne.

“Small mercies,” Phryne laughed. “Is dinner―”

“Almost done, miss. I believe there might be just enough time for a drink before it’s served.”

Which, after the day Phryne had had, was very welcome news.

“Marvelous, Mr. B,” she said, then made her way to the parlour doors; they’d been closed, rather uncharacteristically, but she pushed them open and smiled at the figure Jack cut, leaning against her mantelpiece with all the air of a man who belonged there. 

She had to admit, the thought had merit. 

“Miss Fisher,” he said, his voice completely level. 

Well, that was ominous.

“Hello, Jack,” she said brightly. 

He drained his whiskey quickly, the tumbler making a quiet thud as he placed it on the mantelpiece.

“Something you’d like to tell me?” he asked.

“Well, I’ve hardly had time seeing as how I just got home,” she said, ready to leap to the defensive. “But yes.”

“It wouldn’t happen to be that you went to see Mr. Lever this afternoon?”

Ahh, there it was. It had been a perfectly justified choice―the woman who had hired Phryne to find her brother had hoped to at least recover a ring of sentimental value that had been stolen, and Phryne had spoken with Lever in the hopes of discovering which pawn shop he’d sold it to―but it hadn’t played out as expected; Lever had managed to slip his cuffs and grab Phryne by the arm before the guard could intervene, and she had a rather spectacular bruise and some wounded pride to show for it. 

“Your connections at the gaol?” she asked.

Jack nodded, his lips pressed together in irritation. “Yes. I received a telephone call informing me that the woman I had sent to interview Adam Lever had been hurt, and they would be reviewing their safety precautions.”

“I did intend to tell you―”

“No, you didn’t.”

Well, she had _considered_ it, at least. Rather than voice that particular detail, Phryne moved to the drinks cart to pour her own whiskey. She raised the decanter in offer, but he shook his head no. 

“It’s really not as awful as it sounds,” she said.

“Which part?” he asked, a heat growing in his voice. It had been so bloody _foolish_ , and the seconds between hearing she’d been hurt and learning that it wasn’t serious had been excruciatingly long. “The part where you used my name to interview a suspect? Without telling me? That he assaulted you? Damn it, Phryne, you _knew_ he was dangerous.”

“It was a routine questioning, Jack.”

“No, it wasn’t,” he spat, pushing off the mantelpiece and taking a step towards her. “If it was routine, there would have been someone with you. A kid fresh out of the academy knows you don’t interview men like Lever alone, especially when you’re already a target.” 

She crossed her arms, ready to counter his argument, but he kept going, jaw clenched, hands gesticulating, that wayward curl that always threatened to escape when he was upset falling onto his forehead. 

“And what did you need my name for? You have connections of your own.”

Because it had been easier. Nobody questioned Detective Inspector Jack Robinson’s quirks, not the way they would question hers, and it had been easier. She hadn’t wanted to spend any more time than was absolutely necessary―she wasn’t a fool, she could recognise a dangerous man when she saw one―and it had been easier.

“I don’t know,” she said instead, lifting her chin defiantly.

“You don’t…” he scoffed bitterly, shaking his head. “Of course you don’t.”

It was her turn to step forward. “And what is _that_ supposed to mean?”

“It means, Miss Fisher, that there are days you wouldn’t know what’s good for you if it came up and bit you on the nose.”

His step, then hers, until they were only inches apart. 

“Oh, and I suppose you do?” she retorted. “Jack Robinson, always sensible and clever and never making mistakes―”

“This isn’t about me.”

“Isn’t it?” she challenged, tilting her head up to meet his eyes; she forgot, sometimes, that he was taller than she was.

He was furious, brow furrowed and jaw clenching, every line of his body taut and threatening to snap, his eyes hard. She had a perverse desire to push him further, see whether she could make him erupt. 

“Isn’t it?” she repeated, beginning to walk her fingers up his chest, punctuating every word, “Detective Inspector Jack Robinson?”

He stopped her hand with his own, unamused. It was a bloody _game_ with her, no regard for… well, anything. 

“Enough, Phryne,” he said, pushing her hand away.

She actually _pouted_ , as if a pair of pursed lips and sad eyes were enough to unravel his anger, and attempted to fix his tie.

“Now, Jack…”

“No.” There was so much he wanted to say to her; that it was reckless and foolish, that he knew he could live without her, but he didn’t want to; that it wasn’t that her thought her incapable, or precious and to be coddled, or whatever excuse she’d used to justify her actions. There was so much he wanted to say to her, but she never bloody _listened_. “No. I think… I think I’ll have to decline dinner tonight. I find I’ve lost my appetite.”

He stepped away, heading for the hall where his hat and coat hung.

“Jack!”

She’d thrown herself against the front door as if to stop him from leaving, and for all her attempts to look alluring―and god, she did, she always did―the strained look in her eyes was the thing which gave him pause.

“Surely we could… go upstairs, discuss this?”

“What’s there to discuss, Miss Fisher?”

She raised a hand to tuck her hair behind her ear; he could smell the perfume on her neck, imagine the taste of her skin beneath his tongue, hear the breathy little gasp she made when he kissed her there. He lowered his head without thought, softly brushed his lips against the column of her throat, pulled away. Blinked slowly, breathed deeply, refused to succumb.

“I…” she faltered, her hand hovering over his chest, unwilling to touch him but unable to resist. “I want you to stay.”

The anger in his eyes had been one thing, but the resignation that replaced it… 

“Why, Phryne? What good would it do?”

He took her hand, his fingers caressing hers even as he pushed her away; Phryne’s blouse slipped down her arm, exposing the bruises on her wrist, and he froze. She waited for him to move; after a moment he gently wrapped his own hand over the bruising, gently lining up his fingers with the marks. She surged upwards, capturing his head with her other hand, his lips with hers. 

“Upstairs,” she murmured, nudging his nose with hers. 

His growl as he pressed his body flush against hers sent ripples across her skin and a rush of arousal through her. She rolled her hips against him, gasping at the sensation. He dropped her wrist, grasping her hips with both hands and lifting her up; she wrapped her arms around his neck and her legs around his waist, kissing him fiercely. 

“Jack―”

“Stop talking.”

“Or what?”

“Stop. Talking.”

His teeth were scraping against her skin, his arms holding her steady; she ground against him once more, moaned at the feel of his cock even through their layers. 

“Fuck,” he cursed, shaking his head. 

Phryne smirked, resisting the urge to tell him that that _was_ the idea, and looked towards the stairs with an arched eyebrow. When he didn’t move she pulled his tie loose, throwing it towards the parlour then looking at him with all the innocence at her disposal. 

“Oops?”

“Not convincing.”

She laughed, bright and playful, and his blasted heart skipped a beat; he held her tighter as he moved for the stairs, still scowling. No laugh, regardless of how sincere and beautiful and marvelous it was, could ease his agony. She was silent until they’d crossed the door into the bedroom and he’d lowered her to the floor, then went to speak; he cut her off before she could.

“I don’t want to hear excuses,” he admitted.

“You’re still cross.”

“Yes!” 

This was a bad idea; he should leave, before he said something he’d regret. Come back… later, sometime later, when he wasn’t so damned angry and worried and desperate to watch her come undone. She smiled, unfastening the buttons of her blouse.

“Phryne―”

The blouse slid from her shoulders and she removed her trousers, leaving her in in dove grey lingerie he could imagine the silkiness of. His palm itched to touch her. 

“Tell me what you want,” she coaxed, wiggling a little as she removed the lingerie.

_I want you to stop being so reckless. I want you to trust me. I want you to stay exactly as you are._

“I want―” he choked on the words as she moved to the bed, sprawling wantonly on the bed and stroking herself. “I want you.”

“But you’re still cross.”

“Yes.” 

He tossed his jacket aside, watching her. She was spread out on the bed, naked and near quivering with arousal; he clenched his fists, released them, breathed deeply. Strode the few steps to stand at the foot of the bed, dropping to his knees as he grasped her hips and dragged her closer to the edge, running one finger along her damp folds. They could do better than that.

He buried his face between her legs, ruthlessly reaching all the places that drove her wild, surrounding himself with her scent and her taste and the press of her thighs around his head. He was short, erratic, determined to bring her to the highest peak so quickly she’d be dizzy from the lack of oxygen, his lips, his tongue, the brush of his fingers against her opening driving her harder, higher, faster. 

She was close already; he could feel it in her straining muscles, her gasps and moans, her feet digging into the mattress as she rocked against his mouth. With a final swirl of his tongue, drawing sounds from her that made him ache with need, he stopped and stood.

“Touch yourself,” he said, voice raspy and eyes dark as he stepped backwards. She missed the heat of his body immediately, and attempted a coy smile―he wouldn’t be immune to her long.

“Are you sure you don’t want to touch me?” she asked, caressing her breast. “I’m very, very close.”

He arched an eyebrow.

“You don’t need my help.”

Oh, so _that_ was his game. Well, she had no interest in pandering to that nonsense, and slipped her hand between her legs. Her fingers found her clit, so slick with her arousal she could barely gain purchase as she stroked; sparks of pleasure pushed her closer to the edge, winding her tighter and tighter until she could barely think, until she was thrashing against the sheets and panting for breath, but it wasn’t enough, the pleasure from her clit countered by the pulsing, aching need in her cunt; she slipped a finger, two, inside, her muscles clenching, but it wasn’t enough, not big enough, not deep enough, not enough. 

She whimpered in frustration, picked up speed; a small orgasm rippled through her, bringing a modicum of relief, but not _enough_. She bit her lip, still frantically searching for release, met his hungry gaze; the desire in them threatened to devour her and she gasped his name, wanting his touch, his cock, the weight of him against her. 

The shape of erection was clear against the grey of his trousers; she wanted to stroke it, taste it, feel the velvet skin in her hands, but she was too close, too desperate for her own release; he caught her urgency, unfastening the braces and freeing himself from the confines of his trousers. Phryne groaned as he stroked his cock, moved one hand from between her legs to draw him closer. 

He came, lying over her as he kissed her stomach, her breasts, her throat. She arched against him, her nipple brushing against his waistcoat and winding her even tighter, so tight she thought she might scream or cry or lose her goddamned mind. A short, sharp suck at the crook of her neck left her moaning instead, and he stopped.

“Fuck, Phryne.” 

“We’re so much better together, Jack,” she whispered, her voice raw. “Please.”

He nodded, his cock brushing against her; she moaned again, empty and aching and desperate. He thrust inside, sharp and sudden; a stroke, two, and she shattered, a guttural scream ripped from her throat and every muscle spasming in white hot pleasure and tears gathering in her eyes.

It went on for an eternity, yet was over in a minute; she could feel the moment he saw the tears, pausing in shocked horror, not even reaching his own climax. 

“Phryne?”

He went to pull away and she whimpered, drawing him back with her legs around his waist. 

“No… no, good…” she murmured, running her hands against against his back, the roughness of his suit jacket grounding her. “Good. Just… a little more than I was expecting.”

He stroked her cheek, searching her eyes for sincerity; there was a sleepy languidness in her expression, a barely-there curve of her lips. He nudged her nose with his, kissed her softly as the trembling abated. 

“Alright?” he finally asked, and she nodded. 

He withdrew from her, still hard, and slid down to lay on his side, stroking the smooth skin of her stomach absently. She rolled over to face him, somehow managing to appear firm even as she yawned.

“I’m not one of your constables,” she said.

Jack laughed, uncertain what else to do. “It’s a good thing, too. I think Russell Street would have something to say about what we just did.”

“I’m serious, Jack,” she said, unbuttoning the waistcoat he still wore. “ I’m not one of your constables, and I’m not going to behave like one. Nor are you _responsible_ for my safety.”

He opened his mouth to protest, but she pressed a censuring finger to his lips.

“You can care about it, and worry about it. That’s part of… it’s perfectly natural. But my well-being is not on those deliciously broad shoulders of yours.”

She pushed the waistcoat off and began working on his shirt buttons.

“Phryne…”

“No. If you can’t accept that, this will never work.”

He groaned, rolling onto his back and dropping his head against the pillow. She ran a finger down his cock, still half-hard, and smiled at his inhaled gasp.

“Now don’t be cross just because I’m right, Jack,” she scolded teasingly.

He stilled her hand, glaring. Rather undermined by the smirk lurking on his lips, but she gave him credit for trying.

“I wouldn’t say that you’re entirely in the right, Miss Fisher.”

“No,” she conceded, post-orgasmic bliss leaving her sleepy. She nestled against his shoulder, letting her eyes drift shut as she stroked his cock to full length. “I should have, given the circumstances, let you know I was going instead of letting you find out like that. But this… this is very different for me too, Jack.”

“I hadn’t noticed,” he said dryly, his thumb stroking her back softly. 

“Well I had,” she replied. “But the best of intentions won’t keep me from making mistakes.”

She punctuated the remark with a twist of her wrist that drew a curse from his lips, and smirked. 

“What was that?” she asked innocently.

“I said ‘fuck me’, Miss Fisher.”

Laughing, Phryne sat up and rolled over to come straddle his thighs. She stroked his cock again, rising up to take it inside; when he was fully seated she paused, relishing the feel of him against her sensitive flesh, then began to move, his hands on her waist to hold her steady, his hair in disarray, his eyes closed in bliss. She leant over, her hands on his shoulders, and breathed against his ear.

“I think that can be arranged, inspector.”


End file.
